The Skip
by Gameson221b
Summary: At John's insistence, they had separated to cover more ground in less time, and Sherlock regretted that decision now even as he remembered John's annoyance at his overprotective command. Now John had disappeared.


Just arrived. Is John with you? -GL

Sherlock stared at his phone, a stab of panic piercing his chest.

He's not there? He should be there by now -SH

Not here -GL

Text me if he's not there in two minutes. Turning back now -SH

At John's insistence, they had separated to cover more ground in less time, and Sherlock regretted that decision now even as he remembered John's annoyance at his overprotective command. In the end, John had promised to be careful and to keep his phone in his hand, but still the detective blamed himself.

Knowing John would not deviate unless...Sherlock detoured through an alley to retrace the path John would have taken on the opposite side of the block. Lestrade's text sounded just as he reached the next corner.

Still not here -GL

There in 2 min-SH

Sherlock texted as he ran, then pocketed his phone, pushing himself to run faster until his heart felt like it might burst from his chest.

"John. I'm on my way." Repeating the words as though a mantra, a diligence he afforded no one else, Sherlock stopped running only when he rounded the last corner and spied DI Lestrade handcuffing their prey in the exact location he'd last seen John.

Drawing near, Sherlock stared at the man beneath the streetlamp, deducing from his self-satisfied smirk that he was responsible for John's disappearance.

"Where is he?"

Another smirk, which only intensified Sherlock's barely controlled anger, and the detective was on him like...cheese on toast. John loved cheese on toast.

"Sherlock."

The detective fisted his hands in the shoulders of the man's coat and shook him until his eyes glazed over. Punching him crossed his mind, but until he knew where John was, he held back, launching a verbal assault instead.

"I'm not a violent man, mind you, but if I don't get the answer I want, I will put my fist down your throat. Where is John Watson?"

"Don't know, don't care."

"Oh, he speaks, Lestrade. The weasel speaks."

"Be careful, Sherlock." Lestrade grinned. "Weasels bite."

Sherlock growled low in his throat. "Your time is up, arsehole, where is he?"

The man stared at him, a smile quirking one side of his mouth and squinting his eyes. "Thought you were a genius. He's right under your nose and you don't even know it."

The detective narrowed his gaze at the idiot who probably didn't know he'd just implicated himself. Sherlock waited while said idiot tried to stare him down. When the realisation dawned, and Sherlock smiled, the man paled.

Sherlock stepped back on one foot, lowering his shoulder. Before Lestrade could stop him, he made good on his threat, smashing his fist into the still-grinning mouth.

Sherlock shook his hand, ignoring the pain, and the blood, while listening for any sound that might lead him to John. All he heard was the handcuffs being fastened. The idiot wasn't smiling anymore. He'd have to find John on his own.

"I rarely renege on my threats."

Joined by another Yarder just then, Lestrade turned their prisoner over.

"Keep him nearby for a bit, Carter, he's got a fair bit of talking to do."

"Right, sir."

"Not good, Sherlock." Greg said, reaching for his hand.

Sherlock grimaced. "That's John's line."

"Yeah, I know. Looks like you'll need a rabies jab."

"Rabies are extremely rare in the UK. There have been only four deaths since 2000, from dogs…"

"Tetanus jab, then?"

Sherlock glared at him. "After we find John, and if he deems it prudent."

"Right, doctor and all."

Sherlock glared at Greg, then circled in place to observe his surroundings.

"John!"

Only the usual night sounds of a busy London street responded.

"John!"

Sherlock turned toward Greg, a frustrated groan escaping his throat. "He's right under our noses, that's what that bastard said."

"Sherlock," Greg said, staring at a point beyond the detective's shoulder.

Sherlock turned, following line-of-sight with Greg's pointing finger. Unsure at first about where he was supposed to look, his gaze locked on the sushi container falling to the pavement with a pop, its contents spilled where it came to rest.

"John?" he shouted again, running to the skip.

The debris piled above the rim shifted; more food containers joined the first as they popped open when they landed. The stench was stomach-turning. And the flies.

"John!"

Compelled by the frantic movement of the waste and a feeble knocking, Sherlock hoisted himself up on the opposite side of the skip and carefully dropped inside. Using his ever-present torch, he swept the area with his gaze until he spied John's shoes...attached to John's legs and the rest of him beneath a large cardboard box.

"John?"

Rubbish flew in every direction as he worked to uncover his doctor. "John," he said, his voice barely a croak as he slumped in relief.

John's beautiful blue eyes, blown-wide and awash with tears, looked back at him as Sherlock gently peeled the gaffer's tape from his mouth.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade called from beyond the skip.

"He's all right, I need a knife."

While he waited, he studied John's ashen face. "Are you all right?"

John shook his head several times in rapid succession. Sherlock's heart stuttered.

"Drugged. Guy Fawkes. Shite. Can't feel my legs. Hands don't work. Mouth numb."

"Here you go, Sherlock," Greg called, tapping the knife on the side of the skip. "Give a shout if you need assistance."

The instant the knife sliced through the tape around his wrists and ankles, John panicked, tried to right himself with heartbreaking results. Only Sherlock's hand kept him from bashing his head when he fell back.

"John, it's okay. You're okay, easy," he soothed when John continued to struggle. "Let me help you. Do you think you can stand?"

"Get me out. Get me _out_!"

"Look at me, John, look at me. Don't panic. Try to stay calm."

John finally focussed on him, scowled at him. There wasn't much time. Although it was a rare event, an out-of-control John Watson was terrifying and dangerous, so for both of them, the safest plan was to move quickly.

"I'm going to climb out first-"

"No, don't...can't...stay here," John pleaded, slurring his words through obviously numb lips.

Sherlock gripped John's shoulders, shaking him just a bit. Then, sliding one hand up to rest against his cheek, Sherlock waited for John to look up at him.

"Listen to me, John. I'll lift you up so you can hold the rim of the skip. When I'm out, I will help you down. I'm not sure your legs will bear your weight at the moment and I don't want you to fall. Do you understand? Do you trust me?"

John nodded, but it was obvious he was displeased and more than a bit frightened. He probably wanted to shout that he wasn't stupid. Sherlock didn't quite understand the fear, but it wasn't the time to deduce. John was afraid, that was all he needed to know.

"Would you do this for me?"

John stared at him with a resigned and weary expression. "Okay."

"I'll be right beside you."

Sherlock tested the collapsed boxes beneath him to find a stable spot for John to stand. Getting them both upright nearly toppled them back into the waste. Sherlock held onto the skip with one hand and wrapped his arm around his doctor's waist, steadying John until he was able to grip the top edge.

"Hold on. Don't let go."

"Okay," John ground out, his annoyance clear and his patience gone.

With his long legs and overall height to his benefit, Sherlock easily scaled the opposite rim of the skip, out of sight of where Lestrade waited. Before he could turn back to John, the doctor's arms circled his neck.

"John," he wheezed.

"Get me out, Sherlock. Get me out," John demanded through clenched teeth.

As John frantically struggled to climb out, he tightened his hold around Sherlock's neck, effectively choking him. Though small, the sudden addition of his weight upon the unsuspecting detective tipped the balance. They landed in a tangle of arms and legs, John on top, and Sherlock once again protecting John's head from a bashing.

"John?"

John didn't move at first; he lay with his head against Sherlock's chest.

"Okay. I'm okay."

"You boys all right?"

John rolled off Sherlock to lay on the pavement.

"Right, then. Okay. I'll be over by the car while you...finish...whatever it is...you need to-"

"Go away, Lestrade."

"I'll just go away, then," the DI said, obviously trying his best to hide his smile.

"Arse."

"Heard that, Sherlock."

"That was my intention."

John's hand on his arm stopped him from any further comment.

"What? Sorry," Sherlock apologised for his annoyed tone.

"We smell like takeaway, and not in a pleasant way," he said slowly with exaggerated enunciation.

"John, shall we walk home? It's not far. Or we can-"

"No, Sherlock. Not Greg's car. We'd have to pay to have it cleaned.

"Good point."

Sherlock helped John to his feet, bearing most of his weight. John swayed a bit, leaning against him for support.

"Still a bit weak and prickly, but walking will help the circulation."

"Very well, Dr. Watson. And a shower will do us both good."

"Yes," John whispered, pulling him down to drop a quick kiss to his cheek.

Guiding their path closer to the men still standing at the kerb, Sherlock already knew a warning was inevitable.

"Sherlock, don't," warned Lestrade.

Sherlock heard, then dismissed the warning, taking aim at the unprotected nose. With John holding on to his long coat to stay upright, they simply walked away.

By the time they reached their Baker Street door, John was tired of the stares from people who obviously thought he was pissed.

Sherlock, for his part, chuckled every time in that deep voice that made John weak in the knees, which didn't help his bruised pride, but when his detective pushed him through the door and then pinned him to the wall to kiss him silly, all was forgiven.

John curled his arms around Sherlock's waist, pressing his face against his chest.

"No, nope, not good. You smell like stale chips."

"Sushi, John, you spell like sushi."

Taking Sherlock's hand as they climbed the stairs to the flat John stood beside him while he secured both doors, squeezing Sherlock's hand to acknowledge his touch.

"Bath?"

John smiled. "Yes, please."

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket. "Dinner at eight?"

"Italian?"

"Preference?"

"Surprise me, Sherlock."

"Oh, I definitely will. And not just dinner."

John rolled his eyes. "Very subtle."

Sherlock grinned his evil grin that always made John giggle. "John, I am not known for my subtlety."

"True, my love muffin." John whispered, as he went up on his toes to press his mouth to the only lips he would ever kiss.

"How is the numbness in your extremities?"

"Nearly gone, Sherlock, you promised a bath?

"Ah, yes, so I did. Shall we proceed?"

"Okay."

Sherlock turned toward him, laying his hands on John's shoulders. "I believe, John, that your response should have been, 'Indeed, Sherlock.'"

Overwhelmed by a sudden wave of weariness, John closed his eyes and sighed. "Semantics, Sherlock."

"Oh, very well."

John allowed himself to be led to the bath. At the door, they dropped their clothes in two groups, one to wash and the other, including the greatcoat, much to Sherlock's dismay, to be sent out for cleaning.

Sighing dramatically, Sherlock stared at the coat. "Perhaps Lestrade won't need us until my coat is returned."

"Maybe the weather will be too warm to wear the coat."

"John, this is England. It is never too warm to wear my coat."

"Of course." John smirked and turned away.

"Mock if you must."

"Come on Sherlock," John said, taking his hand. "There are goosebumps on your beautiful, naked body."

Sherlock smiled shyly, a blush rising along his neck. He was always precious in pink, John mused.

"You have made a remarkable recovery, my love."

"Was it for me or the bath?"

"Always for you, Sherlock."

"Hmmm." Sherlock leaned in to steal a kiss, and suddenly John was again weak in the knees.

"Oh, let me help you, John."

Suspicious, John narrowed his eyes and observed his detective. "You're just a bit too solicitous. Do you have an ulterior motive?"

"I always have an ulterior motive where you are concerned."

John pursed his lips and nodded several times, "Good to know. So, this is one of your plans, a seduction to get me into the bath with you?"

Putting on his thinking face, Sherlock paused. "Let me think...yes."

The chuckle John had been holding in rolled out of its own accord. Pulling Sherlock down, he pressed his lips to the curve of his ear. "Good plan."

"Thank you, John. That's very kind of you."

"And, do you also have a plan to get me into bed?"

The barest trace of a smile touched Sherlock's lips "Possibly?"

"Only possibly?"

"Well, John, I don't intend to be indelicate, but my olfactory organ is superior, as you are well aware, and-"

"You arse!" John supplied but couldn't quite hide his laughter. He stepped away to open the taps and when he turned back Sherlock pulled him tight again his body. "You were in the same bloody skip. You don't smell like a bunch of flowers, you know."

"Shut up, John."

John obliged, but only because Sherlock stole his breath away with a kiss so filled with longing that all rational thought fled.

Barely able to speak, John rested his head against Sherlock's chest. "All your organs...are superior," he murmured. "And spectacular."

The chuckle that John loved so, rolled over him like...like jam on toast.

"Quite so," Sherlock whispered, still shaking with laughter. "Shall we step into the bath before it gets cold?"

John slipped into the bath first, leaving just enough space for Sherlock to fit in behind him. Sherlock held him close for some time before he drizzled bath gel over his chest and thoroughly bathed him with his elegant hands. Thoroughly. His mind was lazy, unable to put into words a proper response, so he just let his head rest against Sherlock's shoulder.

After he had been bathed to the detective's satisfaction, John watched in amazement as Sherlock used his toes to release enough water to allow the bath to be reheated.

"Brilliant," John said with a giggle. "I didn't know you had prehensile toes."

"No, John. Practice. One of my brother's earliest obsessions was that I should retain at least one of the attributes of our predecessors."

"Odd, your brother."

"You have no idea, John."

"Actually I have a pretty good idea about the one who shall not be named."

"In truth, John, by comparison, my brother makes The Dark Lord Voldemort seem merely a willful child."

John snorted. "What?"

"Harry Potter, John, do keep up."

John laughed so hard he started to cough. "Stop!"

They were quiet for some time as the doctor calmed his giggles. In the safety of Sherlock's arms he was content.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm?"

John sat up and turned to face him. "It's your turn now."

"Not necessary, John."

"I want to, and you will acquiesce to my request."

"Rather bossy of you, I think."

"Sorry?"

"Bossy, John. You're being bossy."

John scowled and looked away. "Oh, I-"

Sherlock wore his silly grin. "I like it."

John was fascinated with the clarity in the eyes that gazed back at him. Sherlock didn't answer straightaway, but John sensed a minute shift as an emotion he couldn't identify skittered across the beautiful face he loved.

With a sigh, Sherlock relented. "All right."

"Thank you."

"My pleasure."

John rolled his eyes. "As I said, very subtle."

Using the detective's favorite gel, John bathed Sherlock's exquisite form with his hands, softly stroking him, worshiping him. In the beginning, Sherlock lay with his head resting on the edge of the tub, but John was soon aware of the gentle scrutiny he knew so well.

John looked up, their gazes locked, and the world slipped away.

Much later, still swaddled in the aftermath of their lovemaking, they lay naked beneath the duvet, curled around each other, lost in each other, simply breathing.

John pulled back just enough to gaze at Sherlock's face, drawing in a sharp breath as his eyes, awash with tears, flowed from blue to green to gray.

"What is it love?" he asked, holding Sherlock's face in his hands.

Sherlock shook his head as John wiped away his tears.

"Love? You don't cry without a reason. What is it?"

Sherlock squeezed his lips together, as heaving sobs stole away his breath.

"Sherlock, you're scaring me. What is it? Please, tell me."

"He th-threw you a-way...like...so much...waste...in a s-skip."

John crushed Sherlock to his chest, "It's okay now."

"No, it's not. It's not okay," Sherlock protested against his shoulder.

"I wasn't hurt, well, just a bit, but I'm okay now."

When his tears dried and Sherlock leaned heavily against him, John knew it was not the end; his detective had more to say.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock whispered as he pulled back to face him. "My anger should not have been directed at you."

"It's all right, love. I understand."

"I searched for you, but you were nowhere to be found. In a skip, John. My most precious possession, yes, possession, I possess you mind, body and soul, thrown in a skip like...that bastard. If he were here at this moment, I would-"

"Suck his eyes out through his nose?" John's attempt at humour, to make Sherlock laugh, and perhaps calm his anger, failed. That was Sherlock's way to defuse a situation, not his.

"Do not mock me, John Hamish Watson. And do not belittle my love for you."

John let his smile slip away. Holding Sherlock's face between his hands, he pressed a kiss to that gorgeous mouth. That was what John did best.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I would never-"

"Shut up, John," Sherlock demanded, rolling them over and pinning John to the bed. "Just shut up."


End file.
